


A Difficult Task

by fuzipenguin, Masqueadrift



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friendship, Gen, canon - what canon?, medical gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masqueadrift/pseuds/Masqueadrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Learning to trust is one of life's most difficult tasks.” – Isaac Watts. </p><p>Will Red Alert ever be able to trust Drift?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Difficult Task

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Masqueadrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masqueadrift/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Aftermath of the Battle for Elysium](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/72276) by masqueadrift. 



> Written for the [tf_reversebang](http://tf-reversebang.livejournal.com/) challenge. 
> 
> I have very little knowledge of IDW events and characterizations so Drift could very well be OOC; having never written Red Alert, same warning applies. Headcanon also took several ideas and ran with them, including the fact that Prowl is Red Alert's older brother.*

**Time Conversion Units:**

Klick – 0.21 earth seconds  
Astrosecond – 10.15 earth seconds  
Breem – 8.12 minutes  
Joor – 6.5 hours  
Orn – 13 days  
Groon – 1.71 years  
Vorn – 82.06 years

 

 

 

                When Red Alert crests the western rise of the small ditch Drift is lying in, he allows himself a brief moment of hope. That hope flares like a tiny super nova as the security director slides down the incline and comes to a stop in front of him.

                Drift feels the prickle of a scan, and he lets his helm fall back to rest against the ground, too weak to hold it up any longer. The moisture rich soil squishes a little beneath his head’s weight, and he grimaces when a trickle of moisture slips beneath his collar faring.

                He can’t wait to leave this Primus forsaken planet behind. Elysium is a deceptive paradise; it is the most beautiful organic planet any Cybertornian has ever stepped foot on, rich in both color and Energon deposits.

                Unfortunately, Autobots and Decepticons alike had quickly learned that the bright beauty of the planet was actually a warning sign. The ground was saturated with liquid, creating sinkholes that could quickly swallow a mech whole. When startled, the indigenous wildlife spat an acid-like secretion that would eat through armor in breems. And the flora was no less dangerous; vegetation as tall as or taller than Prime would come alive without notice, wrapping around limbs and ripping them from their owners’ frames.

                Drift is a little embarrassed that he had been caught unawares during his stumbling retreat from the Decepticons and is now missing an arm because of one such tree. He irritably eyes its mutilated remains lying off to the side, still firmly wrapped around his amputated appendage.

                Red Alert bends at the waist, his lipplates twisting into a moue of distaste. He looks as if he is about to speak and then something off in the distance explodes. He crouches, looking over the edge of the rise warily, blaster at the ready. Drift twitches, good hand clenching his sword’s pommel and trying to lift it. His arm moves two inches off the ground and then collapses back down as his shoulder screams warnings at him, refusing to cooperate.

                After a tense moment, Red Alert straightens, his weapon falling back down to his side. He looks over at Drift, optics flicking over his frame almost dismissively. Then he faces to the south and begins walking.

                Drift stares after him, long after he disappears beyond his optic sight, that flare of hope slowly guttering. He isn’t surprised that Red Alert had turned and left him; the security director had never hid his distaste of the former Decepticon, and on more than one occasion had vehemently protested Drift’s involvement in important missions. It was probably a gift from Primus for Red Alert to come across Drift so incapacitated and hovering on the edge of deactivation.

                He could have called out after him, demanded Red Alert to return, even to explain. But why bother? The end is inevitable.

                Optic shutters sliding shut, Drift relaxes back against the loamy soil. With the way energon is steadily dripping from his wounds, it’s only a matter of time.   

\--

                The soft squelch of approaching footsteps stirs him from his daze. It’s a struggle to even open his optics, but he manages.

                What he sees makes him reboot his optical input.

                Red Alert kneels at Drift’s side, placing his blaster on the ground within easy reach. Then he begins pulling items from his subspace, laying them in a methodical row by his knee.

                “You… you came back…” Drift rasps, his vocalizer spitting static. That tiny kernel of hope, apparently not as dead as Drift had thought, flickers slightly.

                “I am not a medic,” Red Alert haughtily informs Drift. “I carry only the most basic of supplies and have very minimal medical training, none of which would have done much to assist you. I would not be able to carry your weight over long distances. And since the electrical storm in the upper atmosphere has been obliterating our long-wave communication relays, my only option was to take a scan of your injuries directly to the medics.”

                He holds up a clamp and peers at it before setting it aside in favor of a smaller one.

                “I had hoped that one of them would be available to return to you directly, but unfortunately, they were all otherwise occupied,” Red Alert absently admits, bracketing the largest of Drift’s wounds with the fingers of one hand. The other holds up the clamp as one of Red Alert’s headlights flicker on, directly into the gaping hole. Red Alert hesitantly peers inside, his orbital ridges furrowed.

                “Do you… know what… you’re… doing?”

                Drift has to give the mech credit for going through the effort. But the gingerly held instrument doesn’t create a lot of confidence on Drift’s part. Not that he has any other options at the moment.

                Red Alert looks offended. “I am perfectly capable of following a set of instructions!”

                The other mech gives himself a small shake. “Just clamp off the bleeding lines,” he says softly, almost to himself. “That’s all there is to it.”

                Red Alert’s stubby sensory horns suddenly produce a tiny spark at their tips. Drift warily observes them as Red Alert’s denta worries his bottom lipplate.

                “And even if I don’t do it correctly or miss something, one of the medics will be along shortly,” Red Alert announces, visibly gathering courage.

                “I’m afraid they didn’t send me with any pain dampeners, so this might hurt. But you must hold still,” Red Alert cautions, optics flicking up to Drift’s faceplates before redirecting his gaze to Drift’s wound.

                With a sound somewhat similar to a reluctant whine, Red Alert’s hand plunges downwards, the clamp disappearing within Drift’s internals. A little to his dismay, he can see Red Alert’s hand subtly shaking, enough to scrape against the oversensitive edges of the wound.

                Drift hisses, but locks down his joints to keep from moving as the instrument rummages around. Red Alert cranes his head, trying to get a better view, until he suddenly makes a noise of triumph.

                “Got it!” Red Alert announces, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Drift can’t help his quirked grin at the sight.

                “Ggggood job,” he praises. “How ma… many more?”

                Red Alert looks up, his delighted smile quickly turning into a frown as he runs another scan. Drift has never thought he would see an expression of worry on the Security Director’s face. Well. At least not directed at _him._

                “Just… just a few,” Red Alert stammers, quickly reaching for another clamp.

                Two more are placed in quick succession, Red Alert’s first success lending him speed. But despite the quick work, Drift feels himself fading even more. The blaster wound to his chest is perilously close to his spark housing, and Drift’s surprised that he’s lasted this long.

                “Drift? Drift, can you hear me?” Red Alert asks, his faceplates suddenly micrometers away from Drift’s optics. He tries to speak, tries to jerk backwards, but all he can manage is a gurgle. His glossa tastes raw energon, and his intakes wheeze as more lifefluids begins welling up through his internal vents.

                “Oh! Oh, they never said anything about this. I don’t know what to do about this!” Red Alert exclaims, hands frantically flying across Drift’s frame. He can’t feel the touches, can’t sense the weight of his sword on his palm. His HUD flashes with an exponentially growing list of critical failures.  

                “Drift? Drift! Stay online! Help is coming, just stay on online!” Red Alert’s shout comes from a great distance away, his concerned optics growing closer and receding as he peers into Drift’s faceplates, his wounds, and then back again.

               It makes Drift dizzy, so he turns off his optical feed. Red Alert shouts something else, and Drift has time to think that he at least doesn’t have to deactivate alone; that is more than he ever hoped for.

               Then he knows no more.

\--

               It’s a surprise when Drift next onlines. He had thought for sure that he wouldn’t ever open his optics again after the last time he closed them.

               He’s both pleased and a little disappointed.

               Drift’s systems are sluggish to respond, and his proximity sensors don’t boot up quickly enough to warn him ahead of time of the hand that lands on his shoulder.

               “Coming out of stasis nicely,” a familiar, gruff voice notes, ignoring Drift’s flinch. “It’s gonna be slow going for a bit; take your time.”

               This only makes Drift want to online faster, just to be obstinate. He struggles against his own systems, finally cracking open one set of optic shutters to see Ratchet leaning over him, gaze fixed on something off to Drift’s side.

               Drift makes a sound. It’s supposed to be a sentence, something cheerful and flippant, but the only thing that emerges is a raspy cough.

               Glancing down at him, Ratchet arches an orbital ridge as if to say ‘I told you so.’ He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest, fixing Drift with an irritated look.

               “You’ve been out for half an orn. I had to jumpstart your spark twice… _twice_! That blaster shot cracked your spark casing, and the damn planet’s fragging liquid secretions are apparently corrosive to casing liners. _And_ energon tubing.

               “I had to replace nearly _every_ line in your Primus-forsaken chassis! Not to mention the fact that you came in missing an arm!” Ratchet growls, placing his hands on his hips and really getting into the rant.

               Drift relaxes back onto the padded berth surface and is content to watch. He has a lot of respect for Ratchet’s throwing arm, but everyone knows that the medic would never really hurt a recovering patient, especially one that he slaved over.

              A shouted tirade, however, was a given.

              “A fragging _arm_! That was lost in a fight with a tree! A _tree_! I’m still plucking vines out of your elbow joint. Thank Primus Red had the foresight to bring it back; I’m short on parts as it is,” the medic grumbles.  

              “He… helped me,” Drift manages, suddenly remembering the worried expression on the Security Director’s faceplates.

              “He saved your life,” Ratchet returns brusquely. “He kept you online long enough until Hoist could get there. They had to do an emergency tap of your engine; it was nearly swamped with energon. Hoist said that Red makes for a good assistant.”

              “You’ll have… to tell him… that,” Drift wheezes, something inside his chest pulling with every drag of air through his ventilation system.

              “I already did. He’s been here practically the whole time,” Ratchet says, an irritated frown creasing his faceplates. His gaze flickers off to the right before he leans over Drift, scanner magically appearing in his hand.

              Drift turns his head to the side and blinks in surprise at the sprawled out form of the Autobot’s Security Director. Red Alert is so deeply in recharge that he is nearly falling out of the chair he’s slouched in, tops of his sensory horns level with the seat back.

              “You getting any errors?” Ratchet inquires, frown deepening at the scanner’s results.

 **No,** Drift says, resorting to a private comm. line. **But my chest’s tight. Almost like you added something, and it all doesn’t quite fit. How long has he been here?**

              “Nearly everything in your thoracic cavity had to be replaced. Give your frame some time to integrate the new hardware,” Ratchet suggests. “And Red? He comes in on his free shifts. I told him there was no point since I had you in medical stasis, but he insisted.”

              Drift is unable to comprehend it. No one has ever visited him in the Med Bay. And Red Alert hates him. He probably had felt some sense of duty to repair Drift, but to sit with his unconscious frame on his off shifts? Why?

              Sending the security director an uneasy look, Drift turns his attention back to the CMO.

 **How long am I in for?**  Drift asks, curious how long he would have to suffer under Ratchet’s ‘care’. He had always recuperated more quickly away from the hustle of medical bays.  

              “You’re stable enough for me to kick you out. You’re off duty for the next half orn and light for the following half; it will take me at least an orn to repair your arm. Don’t let me see you back in here until I call for you,” Ratchet warns, giving Drift the evil optic. He subspaces the scanner and holds out a hand.

              Drift grasps it and lets the medic help him upright. Once sitting, some of the tightness in his chest eases. He’s just a touch off balance until his gyros recalibrate for the loss of his limb. Good thing his opposite arm is just as proficient with the sword.

              “Thank you,” he says, the words coming out a little easier now.

              Ratchet grunts, waving off the sentiment. “I suppose I should thank you as well, although I can’t decide if you saved me work or created even more. Now get outta here.”

              Drifts confusedly stares after the medic as he departs for his office. What was Ratchet thanking _Drift_ for?

\--

              It takes him a few breems to make it back to his own room. Every few steps he has to pause and ventilate slowly, waiting for the building internal pressure to ease. He passes several ‘bots along the way, and Drift is even more unnerved when several of them smile and greet him.

              His defection from the Decepticons has been treated with a variety of responses from the command element. Optimus, Kup, and Ratchet have never once showed him an ounce of fear, interacting with him as they would any other ‘bot.

              Yet, Ironhide continually grumbles subvocally whenever Drift’s around, and he’s caught both Prowl and Springer looking at him in consideration on more than one occasion. And Red Alert… well, the Security Director has outwardly denounced Drift’s intentions every chance he could get.

              The majority of the crew goes out of their way to avoid him, except for a few random sparks. Upon his arrival, the Twins had immediately challenged him to a bout in the training ring; they had all ended up under Ratchet’s tender mercies as a result. While they didn’t emerge  friends, the three of them had gained a bit more respect for the other, Sideswipe even going to so far as to meet with Drift on a regular basis to practice their sword play.

              Bluestreak was shy at first, but it didn’t take long for his trademark chatter to kick in. He occasionally drops by Drift’s usual table in the rec room, sitting with him for a few moments under Prowl’s watchful optic. Bumblebee was another infrequent visitor, chatting amicably for several moments about nothing in particular before wandering off to join the rest of the minibots.

             Other than those few brave souls, no one really interacts with Drift. For the most part, he accepts that. Everyone knows his history, knows about the Autobots he’s killed in the past. It’s a lot to forgive, and Drift doesn’t expect forgiveness. Just the opportunity to make amends.

             So hearing the greetings and seeing the smiles is disconcerting to say the least. He responds with polite nods and hurries on his way, as quickly as he can.

             He reaches his door with a jolt of relief and keys in his code. He enters the small room, optics immediately locking on his berth. Drift lowers himself down the surface with a sigh, surprisingly exhausted from such a short trip.

             He quickly makes himself comfortable, eagerly initiating his recharge protocols. Medic’s orders, after all, and he’s only got an orn to recover and train himself back into battle readiness. Might as well get started.

\--

                A ping from the door knocks him out of recharge, and he can’t help the little protesting whine that emerges from his vocalizer. Maybe whoever is outside will think he is still in Medical if he doesn’t respond. He’s halfway back into recharge when another ping comes.

                And then another shortly after. Groaning, he rolls to the side and leverages himself upright, swaying a little on just the one arm. 

                “I’m coming,” he mutters as the door sounds again. “Keep your plating on.”

                He shuffles across the room, optics resetting four times before the haze clears completely from his vision. Drift reaches the door and leans against it for a moment, the pressure in his chest still vaguely uncomfortable.

                The door pings again.

                Irritated now, but trying not to show it in his expression, Drifts unlocks the door and yanks it open.

                “Yes?” he manages to say without too much ire. “What do… oh. Bluestreak. Hello.”

                The sniper beams back at him, optics practically sparkling in happiness. “Hi, Drift! I went to visit you in Medical, but Ratchet said he had just discharged you. I thought you would head back here, because there’s nothing like the comfort of your own bed when you’re recovering and are you comfortable enough? Do you need anything?”

                Bluestreak’s expression suddenly becomes stricken. “I should have brought you a cube of fuel! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that! You wait here, and I’ll be right back!”

                Whirling on his heel, Bluestreak darts off in the direction of the rec room, Drift staring after him with his mouth open and one hand raised in an unseen ‘wait’ gesture.

                Optics blinking rapidly, Drift lets his arm fall to his side and snaps his mouth closed. Bemusedly shaking his head, Drift steps back into the room, pushing the door closed. He leaves it unlocked as he is sure Bluestreak will be back shortly, but does go back to his berth.

                Despite the hard surface that he purposely leaves devoid of cushions and coverings, he readily crawls atop it, propping his back up against the wall. Drifts rubs at his main chest seam, frowning until the pressure lets up. He hopes his systems will acclimate the new hardware soon; it’s rather unnerving to feel as if all his internals are rubbing against one another.

                Dropping his head back to rest against the wall, he lets his optics wander around the room. He quarters are spartan, the majority of his belongings kept within his subspace pockets, so eventually his gaze lands on the optic-searing orange of the ceiling and stays there.

                His optic shutters are drooping, his recharge protocols looming enticingly, when there’s a knock on the door. Drift struggles up from his slump, optics snapping open.

                “Come on in, Blue!” he calls.

                There’s a moment of silence, and then the door slowly yaws open.

                “Er… it’s not Blue…” a voice hesitantly said, followed by Red Alert’s now familiar faceplates as he peers around the edge of the door.

                “Red Alert – I… no, that’s fine, come in!” Drift says, once more surprised. He pushes himself completely upright, wriggling in a downright embarrassing manner across the surface of the berth until his feet can touch the floor.

                “No, no! Don’t get up on my account!” Red Alert exclaims, rushing forward.

                “Ratchet would have my diodes if you hurt yourself after all the hard work he’s put into you,” Red Alert mutters, hands gently exerting pressure on Drift’s shoulders.

                Drift reluctantly sinks down out of his bent over crouch; one should stand at attention when there was an officer present. Unless the officer was Ratchet and pit-bent on performing an exam; then Drift complied with whatever grace was left to him after the CMO was done assaulting his audials.  

                “Standing is unlikely to injure me,” Drift remarks mildly.

                Red Alert gives a small shake of his head, the tiniest of sparks lighting the tips of his sensory horns. “Nevertheless, you should be resting.”

                “I have been,” Drift says, reassuring the Security Director. “Bluestreak just stopped by; he went to grab a cube of energon for me.”

                “Good. That’s good,” Red Alert says, vigorously nodding his head. He places his hands on his hips and stares down at Drift.

                Drift stares back, becoming more uncomfortable with each passing klick of silence. Red Alert seems just as uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot and finally crossing his arms over his chest.

                Drift caves. “What can I do for you, Red Alert?”

                Red Alert stills, his optics blinking rapidly. “Do? What…? No, nothing, Drift. I just… I just wanted to… check on you.”

                His optics drop to the side, and he fidgets in place again, seemingly embarrassed.

                Drift considers the other mech. Red Alert had seemed genuinely worried over Drift and his injuries; the mech had also spent a good portion of his off duty time sitting with Drift in the medical bay. Neither of which makes a lot of sense, considering their past interactions. What had changed?

                “I’m fine. Recovering. Ratchet’s completely discharged me from the medical bay, so I’m out of any danger,” Drift offers.

                Red Alert nods again. “I know. When I awoke, Ratchet told me. At first, he had been… very worried that you wouldn’t make it.”

                Drift shrugs, discomforted by the almost distressed expression Red Alert wore. He manages a smile for the Security Director.

                “But I did. Thank you for your part in that by the way. Ratchet says you managed to keep me going long enough for Hoist to get there.”

                Red Alert waves a hand through the air, dismissing Drift’s comment. “My field repair skills are woefully inadequate; I must admit I never paid much attention to those lectures. I will definitely be rectifying that mistake.”

                “Uh huh.”

                Drift doesn’t know what else to say to that. He knows that for himself, he’s much more skilled at taking other mechs apart compared to putting them back together. Very few have talent for repair; there’s no shame in that.

                Looking away again, Red Alert surveys the room around him, frowning a little at the bare walls and empty shelves. Drifts feels an urge to apologize, but ruthlessly shoves it down. Materialism is unbecoming. He has a perfectly good memory core; he doesn’t need to supplement it with trinkets and mementos. Besides… there are a great many of his memories that he doesn’t like dwelling on.

                “Why did you do it?” Red Alert suddenly blurts out, optics now boring into Drift’s.

                Drift startles at the volume and non sequitur, mouth gaping just a little as he stares back at the Security Director.

                “I… I’m sorry. What did I do?” he asks, honestly confused.

                Red Alert gestures at Drift’s chest, the area where the blaster shot had nearly found his spark chamber. The area practically gleams with the fresh paint Ratchet recently applied.

                “You jumped in front of that shot. It was meant for Prowl. I _saw_ it. You saved my brother’s life. You could have died; you almost did! _Why_ did you do it? _Why_?!” Red Alert demands, taking a step forward.

                Drift unconsciously flinches back, optics spiraling wide in surprise.

                “Why not?” he responds without thinking. Red Alert’s expression darkens, and Drift hurries to explain before Red Alert could list the many reasons.

                “I was aimed at the back of Prowl’s head. If he had survived, his processor would have been scrap.” Drift remembers the moment as if it had happened joors ago; he had watched Soundwave’s arm raise, Prowl oblivious as he directed Ironhide’s unit in a retreat.

                Early on, Drift had realized that despite their smaller numbers and fewer warriors in comparison to the Decepticons, many of the Autobot successes were due to Prowl’s tactical genius. Prowl’s death would be extremely detrimental; Drift’s wouldn’t even be a footnote in history. It had been an easy decision to make.

                “You… you wore the Decepticon brand for _vorns_. It would have been the _perfect_ opportunity to strike a devastating blow against… against the Autobots,” Red Alert says, echoing Drift’s thoughts. The mech’s vocalizer spits static every other word, and Drift hears a cooling fan kick on, trying to dispel the heat from Red Alert’s distressed systems.

                “Against my own side?” Drift replies softly, raising an orbital ridge.

                Red Alert shakes his head, a quick abrupt motion that makes the sparks at his sensory horns flare. “You can’t be… you _can’t_ …”

                Now it all makes sense: Red Alert’s attempts to repair him, his visits to the medical bay, waiting for Drift to wake up so Red Alert could discover what Drift’s ulterior motives had been. The question of ‘why’ must have been burning a hole in Red Alert’s processor this entire time.

                Drift should have known that it wasn’t out of any honest care for his health or wellbeing.

                Despite the twinge of disappointment, Drift continues to meet Red Alert’s stare with earnest optics.

                “I’m not a double agent, Red. I swore an oath to Optimus… to all of you. I swore it on my spark,” Drift says, hand coming up to rest on his armor over the slowly beating pulse within his chest. “To defend… and protect.”

                Red Alert gazes at him, chest heaving with his rapid ventilations. The poor mech’s sensory horns are sparking nearly continuously, his optics the palest blue from stress.

                His mouth works soundlessly for several moments before he speaks. “… truly?”

                “Yes,” Drift immediately responds, squaring his shoulders despite the stitch inside his chest. “Truly.”

                The Security Director stares at him for another long, silent moment before sinking to his knees. Drift leans forward in alarm, an aborted motion as Red Alert reaches out and hesitantly touches the back of Drift’s hand.

                “Thank you,” Red Alert whispers, expression openly grateful. “I… Prowl is… I too would be devastated if something were to happen to him. Thank you.”

                 Drift is speechless for several microseconds. Then he covers Red Alert’s hand with his own, squeezing gently.

                 “Family is precious,” Drift murmurs, optics flickering down to gaze at the Autobot brand on Red Alert’s chest.

                 Before either of them can do or say anything further, there are several knocks against the door. Red Alert leaps to his feet with a speed and grace that surprises Drift.

                 “Drift? I’m back! Could you get the door? My hands are full!” Bluestreak’s voice floats in from the hallway.

                Red Alert clears his intake, relaxing out of his alarmed crouch. “I’ll get it,” he says to Drift, gesturing for him to stay seated. He quickly strides across the room and pulls the door open.

                “Oh! Red Alert! Did you come to visit too?” Bluestreak asks when he sees the Security Director standing in the doorway.

                “Ah… yes,” Red Alert replies, glancing over his shoulder at Drift. “I did.”

                “Good thing I got extra cubes then! I didn’t know what your energy levels were so I stocked up just in case you weren’t feeling up to going out later in the cycle,” Bluestreak says, sidestepping Red Alert and bustling over to the desk.

                 He sets down the cubes in his hands and then begins pulling more from subspace. Soon there is a veritable pyramid of the things glowing in the corner, and Drift and Red Alert exchange amused smiles behind Bluestreak’s back.  

                 A moment after, Red Alert’s expression turns startled, and he looks away, studying Bluestreak’s doorwings almost nervously.

                 “Here you go!” Bluestreak cheerfully announces, depositing a cube within Drift’s hands. “Drink up!”

                 “Thank you, Bluestreak,” Drift replies softly, touched by the other mech’s efforts. Bluestreak truly was the best of all of them.

                 “You’re welcome!” Bluestreak chirps back. “And one for you!”

                 Red Alert nearly fumbles the cube Bluestreak shoves at him, sensory horns flickering once before he manages to get a grasp on the slick container.

                 “Oh, no… thank you, Bluestreak, but… I, I have to…” Red Alert stammers, trying to return the fuel.

                 “You’re leaving?” Bluestreak’s sensory panels droop, his faceplates forming the Look.

                 It’s the one that Sideswipe has attempted on many occasions without success. Apparently, it only works when the user is honestly feeling emotions of sadness and disappointment. Bluestreak has never had the occasion to turn it on Drift, but he’s seen its powerful effects on others. Big, bad, frontliner Sunstreaker is particularly weak to it, much to the amusement of the rest of the crew.

                 “Well, I…”

                 “Please… stay,” Drift surprises himself by saying.

                 Red Alert looks at him, startled, and Drift feels as if the room itself goes into suspension, waiting for the other mech’s answer. Drift will gracefully accept a ‘no’, gladdened by the knowledge that even if Red Alert still doesn’t fully trust him, he at least understands Drift a little bit better than before.

                 Yet… he hopes, that wavering flame tentatively flaring, Red Alert will say yes.

                 “Well,” Red Alert says, gaze dropping to stare into the depths of the energon in his hand. A soft, barely there smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “I suppose I can stay for just one cube.”

 

~End

           

**Author's Note:**

> This challenge was a lot of fun and it was an honor to write something for such a lovely piece of art created by such a talented artist!
> 
> * If anyone is wondering why on earth I decided to make Prowl Red Alert's brother, I can go into that in more detail; there is a surprising about of backstory to that piece of headcanon.


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